


I dream of Djinni

by Teragram



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dean is In Over His Head, Djinni & Genies, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-14 01:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11772669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: Dean becomes suspicious about Cas’s recreational activities and learns more than he’s ready to know.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean gripped the lumpy motel pillow and rolled to face the wall, hoping that sleep would come if he looked in a different direction. He pressed his face into the rough cotton and tried to stop thinking about Cas. Thinking was the enemy of sleep and he needed his four hours.

As he tried to slow his breathing Dean admitted that maybe he was being paranoid. But after his brother’s demon blood addiction, and all the time Sam spent without a soul, Dean had become more attentive to the people around him, and something was definitely going on with Cas. He growled in frustration, punched his pillow into a new shape, and flopped onto his stomach.

It started with the grey duffel the angel had been lugging around lately. Why did Cas even have a bag? It wasn’t like he needed a change of clothes or personal hygiene products, and his go-to weapon popped out of his sleeve like Inspector Gadget. So what was in the bag? The question had captured Dean’s attention and now his eyes tracked Cas’ duffel as if it were glowing in the freaking dark.

11:34 am, at the Econosleep in Des Moines, Iowa, Cas puts the bag under his chair and guards it with his feet while he and Sam speculate about which of the volunteers at a local soup kitchen is possessed by a demon.

12:00pm, Cas ducks his messy head through the long strap and shifts the bag onto his back as he they join the line of folks heading into a community meal program. Dean’s attention is only half on the job as they try to determine who’s making soul-stealing deals with Des Moines’ down-and-out.

12:48pm, after some damn fine bean stew, a well-timed “Christo” reveals black eyes on the community center’s elderly cleaning woman. They chase her to an isolated corridor where Cas grips her tightly as they mutter the Latin exorcism. Dean takes the opportunity to heft Cas’ duffel bag in his hand. It feels solid and heavy, like it’s full of paperbacks. As Sam lowers the cleaning lady to the floor, checking for signs of life, Dean swears Cas looks at him a little funny.

1:02pm, Cas throws the bag into the backseat of the Impala and quickly follows it as the three of them flee the scene. Cas leans on the bag as he announces that Sam shouldn’t dwell on the elderly woman’s death because she probably died of a heart attack shortly after being possessed over a month ago. Sam, big-hearted sucker that he is, clearly feels like shit anyway.

3:45 pm, Cas pushes the grey bag against the wall and stands in front of it while he and Sam discuss whether a demon can possess a recently deceased body. Sam believes Ruby’s claim to have done so while Cas questions whether it’s metaphysically possible. Dean hates to agree with anything Ruby ever said, but to be fair he doesn’t follow half of Cas’ argument, especially the bit about tripartite theology. Dean can’t even tell if Cas if for or against, but he clearly feels strongly about it.

“So,” Dean finally asked, cutting into the angel’s monologue about the mechanics of possession, “what’s up with the bag? You look like you’re goin’ to the gym.”

Cas shrugged, his face a poker-perfect mask. “It seems prudent to have somewhere to keep personal items.” Almost immediately, the angel bid them goodnight and vanished.

The next time Dean sees the bag it has a lock on it. Not a lock that could stop him, but one that underscores exactly what ‘personal’ means. Dean thought about the drugged-out Cas from that shitty version of 2014 that Zachariah sent him to, and wondered if the bag might be full of drugs. God, he hoped it wasn’t blocks of coke or heroin.

Curiosity was eating him up. Dean felt like a weirdo, trying to arrange some alone time with Cas’ duffel, but it was surprisingly difficult to achieve. Cas didn’t go to the bathroom. His arms didn’t get tired lugging it. He wasn’t going to forget it behind. If he wanted to get a peek inside, Dean was going to have to separate Cas from the bag. He thought about painting a banishing spell on the wall and grabbing the bag just as he activated it, but that seemed too in-your-face. He wanted to find out what was in it without Cas knowing he was looking.

His brain took up the challenge as if the apocalypse depended upon it. So he couldn’t sleep. He turned onto his side and kicked a leg out of the covers. How was he going to get alone with the bag? He needed a plan.

* * *

Witches. Castiel frowned. He wondered if any human who borrowed their power from a demonic entity truly understood the bargain they were entering. In this case the deal entailed sacrificing a virgin, which made his sympathy for the witches dwindle significantly.

Castiel followed Sam and Dean into the side door of an upscale Kansas City hotel and headed for the basement. Inside the employee’s locker room, Dean tossed them burgundy uniforms, pulled the demon-killing knife and iron cuffs from his weapons bag, and then stored the bag in an unused locker. Dean seemed pleased with himself today, and Castiel found that this made him both happy and wary.

Dean rubbed his hands together and then pointed at him. “You and Sam enter the suite posing as room service and clamp the witches in irons.” He tossed his brother the restraints and then gestured toward the door with the knife. “I’ll rescue the vic and stop whatever demon-raising situation is happening down here.”

Castiel removed his coat and suit jacket and pulled the uniform on over his dress shirt.

“So I’ll be going with Sam?" He liked it when he worked with the Winchesters, but when they split up he usually worked with Dean. He’d come to look forward to it, and wondered if Dean had found fault with his performance.

“Yeah, Cas. What I just said.” Dean wiped a hand across his neck. “You know me and witches.” Castiel nodded, but kept his eyes on Dean. He did not seem distressed. He seemed…anticipatory. Perhaps he was looking forward to killing the demon. Dean did have a tendency toward bloodlust. Castiel wondered of this was a feature his father had instilled to help him as a hunter, or if it was the byproduct of adapting to a difficult calling. Perhaps it was the result of his time in Hell. Regardless of its origins, Castiel wasn’t sure it was good for Dean.

Sam glared at the uniform’s gold piping. “Your plan has me dressing like the lead in a Gilbert and Sullivan production.”

“Cry me a river, Captain Crunch. I’m killing a demon, so I think I win the ‘shittiest day’ contest.

Castiel began to unbuckle his pants and Dean’s face reddened as he swiveled away.

“Damn, Cas! A little warning before you drop trou’?”

“You gave me the uniform,” Cas pointed out as he stepped out of one pair of pants and into the next. “How did you imagine I would get into it?”

“I didn’t imagine anything about you undressing, okay?” Dean scooped up Castiel’s clothes and stuffed them hurriedly into a locker. Castiel eyed his duffel bag, trying to determine what to do with it, but Dean grabbed that too, pushed it on top of the clothes, and passed him a lock. “Here you go. Combination is Sam’s birthday.”

“The virgin may be distraught,” Castiel told Dean. “Be compassionate.” When it came to the emotional wellbeing of victims of the supernatural Dean could be less than sensitive.

“I’m compassionate,” Dean insisted. Castiel made eye contact with Sam, who shrugged as he buttoned his uniform jacket. “Just ‘cause Sam usually does the touchy-feely crap doesn’t mean I suck at it.”

“The fact that you call it ‘crap’ is a point of concern,” Castiel pointed out. It was unfortunate that Dean had been raised to feel shame about his emotions. If he ever met John Winchester he had some pointed criticisms of his parenting to impart.

Sam tossed his clothes on top of Castiel’s duffel bag, took the lock, and secured it on the locker. “Just, be nice, okay? And no funny business with the virgin.”

“Oh please! Like I’m that desperate.” Dean headed toward the furnace room.

With an anxious glance at the locker Castiel followed Sam, still hearing Dean grumble about how nice he was.

* * *

 

As soon as Dean was sure Cas and Sam were gone he hurried back to the change room, opened the lockers, and switched Cas’ duffel bag with the ringer he’d stashed at the hotel the night before. It had taken him forever to find the same brand of bag and stuff it to the right weight and balance. The imitation was filled with Zane Grey novels he’d picked up at a Sally Anne. He slipped Cas’ bag into his own duffel, locked up behind him, and hurried to the furnace room. There would be plenty of time to search the bag. Right now he needed to kill a demon and be nice to the sexually inexperienced.

* * *

 

Sam ‘s phone buzzed with a text from his brother. “Dean’s gonna give the virgin a lift home. We’ll have to cab it back to the motel,” he updated Cas.

Castiel looked at the witches, mouths sealed with duct tape and arms shackled to the toilet with iron. “What do you propose we do about them?”

Sam picked up the phone on the desk of the fancy suite. “I’ll place a food order for an hours from now so room service will find them. We should walk a few blocks before we flag a cab.”

“I could take you back to the motel,” Castiel offered. “Angel express, as you call it.”

Sam shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d like to be able to use the bathroom this weekend.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Actually,” Sam ventured, “would you mind coming with me? I need an opinion on the ethics of something and Dean isn’t exactly Mr. Morals.”

“I’m happy to offer my perspective.”

* * *

Back at the motel, Dean picked the tiny lock and opened the angel’s bag with a loud zip. He stared, his jaw slack. Hamilton, Lincoln, Jackson, and Washington stared back at him. Dean’s throat felt dry and sticky. Of all the things he thought he might find in Cas’ bag, money hadn’t made the list. Hesitantly, he grabbed a stack of cash, half expecting to trigger a pack of explosive dye. He thumbed across the end of the stack. There were a lot of singles. Was Cas going to strip clubs? Given the angel’s nervousness at that brothel in Maine, Dean doubted that was the answer. He held a bill up to the light. He was no expert, but it seemed legit to him.

* * *

“So this one time, Balthazar sent us to some parallel dimension where we were actors. Our whole lives, the family business, you, it was all a television show. And I was married to Ruby. Well, to the woman who played Ruby in that universe. You follow me?”

“I think so.”

“So there are dimensions where magic doesn’t exist.”

“Obviously. I assume this story has a point?”

“Wow, Cas. You were way more patient the first time you were an angel.”

“That was before I experienced time as finite.”

“My point is, witches. It’s not like we can send them to prison, so what about transporting them someplace magic doesn’t exist? Like taking away a guy’s driving license if he runs someone over with his car.”

“Except you’d be initiating an existential crisis by removing their primary sources of comfort and power.”

“Yeah. If magic doesn’t exist there, they can’t escape and they’re less likely to hurt anyone.”

“Interesting. I guess your moral challenge is whether that’s a just punishment for attempting to murder a virgin?”

* * *

When Sam and Cas came into the motel room Dean was on the bed, his arm curled casually around Cas’ bag, as if they were watching a movie together.

“You wanna explain this?” He cocked his head toward the open bag. Cas looked at the duffel in his own hand, realization dawning on his usually placid face. He dropped the bag and lowered himself into a chair.

“It’s currency.” Cas’ voice had that sharp edge it always got when he’d been caught doing something stupid.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, seeing the angry expression on Dean’s face as he loped into the room.

“Oh, nothing. Except Angel-boy going all Dog Day Afternoon.” Dean held out the bag of money.

“Whoa!” Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Rob a bank, Cas?”

“I have never robbed a bank,” Cas said, his voice annoyingly calm. He set the decoy bag on the floor.

Dean shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off the angel. “Don’t play around. Where’d it come from?”

The angel didn’t look guilty. He had the same expression he usually did—between mildly curious and slightly bored. “East Rutherford, New Jersey.”

“Jersey? Is this,” Dean lowered his voice. “Is this mob money?”

“No. It was going to be destroyed by your Federal Government. I just gave it another opportunity to circulate.”

“You robbed the Federal Reserve?” Sam darted to the window, took a quick look for the FBI or Homeland Security, and then pulled the curtains closed with a snick.

“I wouldn’t say ‘robbed.’” Cas made air quotes with his fingers. “Their system is almost entirely automated. I flew in, took what I needed, and flew out.”

Dean crossed his arms. “So little goody two-wings here just bamfed in and helped himself. I’m a little rusty on my Bible, but isn’t ‘Thou shalt not steal’ one of the Commandments?”

“Yeah, it is,” Sam confirmed, looking worriedly at Cas. “Care to explain?”

Cas shrugged. “Is it stealing if it’s technically garbage?”

“Yeah Cas, it kinda is.”

“I thought it was time I started pulling my weight around here.” Cas looked at the floor, but Dean noticed his eyes glance sidelong at the two of them.

Checking to see if we’re buying his story, Dean thought. He’d seen that before and it didn’t go anywhere good.

Sam picked up a wad of cash and flipped through it. “Wow, Cas. This is…small bills, untraceable.” Dean watched Sam’s surprised face morph into his impressed-as-hell face.

“Don’t,” Dean warned him. “ _Do not_ encourage this.”

Sam didn’t look convinced. “It’s better’n credit card scams, isn’t it? Less risk.”

Dean had to admit that it was. But he kept wondering why an angel needed so much money. Because he didn’t believe Cas’ ‘pulling his weight’ story for a second.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean kept his mouth shut when Cas started dipping into the bag to pay for gas, motel rooms, or food. Because no matter how many times Cas picked up the bill Dean knew in his gut it was just a smokescreen for whatever the angel was really doing with that money. Dean gave the issue two nights of sleepless thought, one in Denver where they’d taken down a shapeshifter, and one in Ogallala after a routine salt and burn turned into a late night of ‘where’s the remaining body part?’ before the angry spirit was finally released.

Back in Lebanon, he’d invested a few hours in the bunker’s file room until he found the magical equivalent of a GPS tracker. It took some work to make Sam think it was his idea to spar with Cas in the gym, but it was worth the effort. Alone with Cas’ trenchcoat Dean unstitched a seam, copied the tracking sigil inside, and then sewed it up again. Over the next week he loomed over a World Atlas and muttered the Latin that would report Cas’ movements. Four times he’d gone to Topeka. Dean smirked. The angel could have been jaunting off to Paris, Hong Kong, or Timbuktu, but no, he’s been going to Topeka, a three hour drive away.

Which was why Dean found himself sweating in the Impala, a map of Topeka on the seat beside him. When Cas rounded a corner and came into view Dean muttered the words to end the tracking spell and shoved the map into the glove compartment. The squat brick building Cas entered was clearly open for business. During his stakeout he’d seen people enter and exit, staying from thirty minutes to an hour. Despite this, the building lacked signage. Place like this, isolated but just off a well-travelled strip, could be a low-budget porn studio or a crack den. Either option made him feel sick. Dean waited fifteen minutes and then slid out of the Impala and crossed the street, his chest tight.

Dean stared at the interior. This was not what he’d expected. The place reminded him of the waiting room of a dentist’s office. He approached the reception desk, occupied by a woman with honey blonde hair, wearing hospital scrubs.

“Hello,” she chirped. “Welcome to Dreamweavers.”

“Hello yourself,” Dean glanced at her nametag, “Cindy.” He smiled and leaned into her personal space. “My friend came in a few minutes ago while I was parking the car. Blue eyes, dark hair. Wears a trenchcoat.”

“Oh. Mr. Winchester.”

“Huh?” Dean’s hand tightened automatically on the gun in his waistband.

“You’re describing Mr. Winchester,” she said, still smiling.

Dean felt amusement settle into his chest, warm and soft. Cas really didn’t get the point of using an alias. He relaxed, letting his hand fall away from his weapon.

“That’s right. Mr. Winchester. I could talk about him all day,” Dean said, giving her a wink.

She grinned. “But I bet you’d rather be in there, where the magic happens, wouldn’t you?”

He smiled his most flirtatious smile. “I sure would, Cindy.”

“Have you been a client with us before?”

Dean shook his head. “First time for everything.”

“That’s so true!” She tapped some keys on her computer. “I’ll need your government-issued photo ID and major credit card or cash deposit.”

Dean pulled out a false driver’s license and credit card in the name of David St. Hubbins, a character from Spinal Tap.

Cindy handed over a clipboard. “Since this is your first time we ask that you fill in a brief medical history and standard waivers.”

“Waivers. Should I be worried?”

“Not at all. It’s very safe. However, we do need to know about any pre-existing conditions that might be relevant.” Cindy blushed. “You look pretty healthy, but we gotta ask.”

“Thanks.” Dean winked at her and went to sit on a plastic chair where he completed the forms in his cramped handwriting. They wanted a lot of medical information, especially about blood-borne diseases and medications he was on. He hoped this wasn’t a vampire-run blood bank where they drain you dry if you had a tasty blood type. He brought the completed forms back to Cindy and wondered if he should pop out to the car for his machete.

Cindy looked over the forms and slipped them into a folder. “And what would you like, Mr. St. Hubbins? Have you had a chance to peruse our catalogue?”

Dean flashed her the dimples. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’ll take whatever Mr. Winchester is having.”

* * *

 

Castiel settled in the padded chair, waiting for Dr. Reza. He had started coming to the clinic to explore ontological questions. Angels hadn’t been designed for emotions, but as he’d discovered, that didn’t mean he was incapable of feeling. His experiences with Dean and Sam had evoked emotional responses, which had deepened during his time without grace. Now that he was ‘juiced up’ again, as Dean put it, exploring the range of his feelings might be dangerous to the Winchesters. Dr. Reza’s service seemed a safe alternative. As he waited, he admitted to himself that he’d passed the point of exploration and was now coming for the pleasure. Even thinking of the center elicited a thrum that energized his body and grace. This too, he supposed was a lesson of sorts.

The door opened and Castiel smiled. Dr. Reza was coming. For the next twenty minutes, everything was going to be just fine.

* * *

 

“St. Hubbins?” Another woman in scrubs, this one holding a clipboard, called out Dean’s alias. He rose from his chair, dropped a copy of _Motor Trend_ on the coffee table, and followed her down a hall and to a small room. The room contained a recliner that reminded Dean of a dental chair, which wasn’t reassuring. On a table nearby stood bottled water and individually wrapped chocolate mints. She slipped the clipboard into a holder on the wall.

“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she assured him before leaving.

Dean took the opportunity to rifle through the cabinet, finding only sterile alcohol swabs and Band-Aids. The third drawer was locked. Dean was about to pull out his picks when the door opened to admit a short man in a lab coat with a shaved head. As he retrieved the clipboard Dean stepped away from the drawer. Behind the man followed a woman in scrubs, her brown hair pulled back from her face.

The man looked up from the clipboard. “Hello, Mr. St. Hubbins. I’m Dr. Reza. And this is your care worker, Amanda. Looks like you’re down for the 20 minute session. That’s a great starter package. Do you have any questions or concerns before we begin?”

“It’s my first time here,” Dean said as Amanda maneuvered him into the chair. “Why don’t you walk me through it?” He tensed, but nobody tried to strap him down or strong-arm him. If they were going to attack they were taking their time about it.

“We’ll put you under,” Dr. Reza said, “Amanda will stay, monitoring your vitals. At the twenty minute mark we’ll bring you out and Amanda will lead you to the recovery room to make sure you’re feeling all right. Sound good?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” He had a moment of panic as Amanda lifted his t-shirt, but she only attached a heart monitor to his chest. It was very medical. If they had regulars, Dean reasoned, it probably wasn’t lethal.

Dr. Reza looked over the form. “Ever had any clotting issues? Blood problems? Allergies?”

“Nope. My blood is healthy and tasty.”

Dr. Reza grimaced. Not a vampire then. Maybe he collected for them. The second they came at him with a needle Dean would take them both out.

Dr. Reza flipped a page. “Oh. You’re replicating a treatment one of our regulars gets.” He looked at Dean and laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t recognize you at first.” He tapped the clipboard. “I get too caught up in the paperwork sometimes.” He passed the clipboard to Amanda and rolled up his sleeves. “I assume you want it reversed?”

Dean hesitated. What the hell did that mean? “Uh, no. Exactly the same, thanks.”

Dr. Reza chuckled. “Whatever you’d like. No judgment here.” He stepped forward and touched Dean’s head. Grey-green tattoos appeared down both his arm and his fingertips glowed blue.

Dean only had time to think, ‘It’s a friggin’ djinn!’ before he passed out.

* * *

 

Dean was at the front door of a shingled house on a suburban street, holding a set of keys. It was warm, with a slight breeze. Dean gave the neighborhood a hard look. It was a little like Poltergeist before shit got real. He reminded himself that this was all the work of a djinn, but it felt surprisingly real.

A kid rode by on a bike and waved, shouting, “Hey Mr. Winchester!” Dean waved back then turned to the door, unlocked it, and walked inside. He was in a foyer with a livingroom to his right. He could smell hamburgers, and something else. Was that pie?

“Welcome home, babe!” a voice called from further inside. Dean’s eyes widened as he watched himself limp haltingly out of the kitchen, a messy-haired toddler clinging to one leg. His double kissed him on the cheek and lingered close for a moment, then reached down and lifted the toddler up to his hip.

“Dinner’ll be ready any minute. How was your day?”

Dean stared. Were his freckles really that visible? He always thought they were hidden by his tan.

“A little surreal, actually.”

“Well, that’s second graders for you.” The other Dean smiled wearily. He kissed the toddler on her head and smoothed her hair back from her face. “You wouldn’t believe what this one got up to with Play-Doh today. If you smell anything weird comin’ from the vents this winter let me know, okay?”

“Will do.” He followed himself into the kitchen and sat on a stool at the counter, sunbeams from a skylight above warming his back.

His other self wrestled the squirming toddler into a high chair, opened a fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer, passing him one. So this was the ‘treatment’ Cas was receiving. He almost hoped a nest of vampires would pop outta the pantry. At least that, he could understand.

“So…what’s going on?” He dreaded asking, but needed to know.

His double winked at him. “Put Mary to bed at seven and then I’m all yours.”

Dean felt a weird mix of emotions. He was touched that this imaginary kid was named after his mom, but he was more than a little unnerved by the wink. He didn’t care what Cas usually did in this fantasy, but Dean was keeping his pants on. Both their pants.

He let this Dean feed him supper—an undeniably delicious hamburger with pecan pie for dessert—and then the three of them sat on the couch watching television. His double pulled him protectively against his chest and the toddler grabbed his fingers in her chubby fist. Dean wondered if he needed to have the ‘like you as a friend’ conversation, but the attention, although affectionate, remained G-rated.

They were half way into an episode of Dr. Sexy, MD when the fantasy began to fade and he opened his eyes to see the room at Dreamweavers. A woman in scrubs—Amanda, Dean remembered—broke the seal on a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“Welcome back. I hope your treatment was satisfactory.” She detached a blood pressure cuff from his arm and jotted some numbers down on a chart.

Dean nodded and gulped the water. He looked at his watch. He’d been trapped with his gay double and their baby for exactly 20 minutes.

Amanda passed him a chocolate mint. “I’ll give you a minute to get your bearings, then we’ll go the recovery room.”

* * *

 

Castiel sipped a cup of espresso and ate a tiny mandarin orange. He didn’t need to recover, but Dreamweavers had a very luxurious room for that purpose and his vessel enjoyed the food. Or perhaps he enjoyed the food. Where once everything had tasted only of molecules, he had learned to taste and feel while human and it appeared that carried forward with him once he regained his grace. He’d discovered that he could, as Sam put it, ‘grow as a person,’ and that raised a number of interesting metaphysical questions. He contemplated them until he finished the food and drink, the put the orange rind into the organic refuse container and the small cup into a tub for soiled dishware, bid goodbye to Denis, his care worker, and left.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Sammy. I don’t even know where to start.” He took a swig from the beer he was clutching, but it didn’t sooth the itch in his throat.

When he’d returned from Dreamweavers Sam had known something was wrong. Something in the way Dean held his shoulders, maybe, or how the vertebra in his back aligned told Sam that Dean was more than a little freaked. And then he’d started in on the interrogation, gently nudging at first, and then more skillfully, until Dean both wanted and needed to talk. Dean had to hand it to him; the kid was good.

“Walk me through it.” His brother leaned forward, arms on his knees.

“It’s like a hospital,” Dean said. “Medical forms, scrubs, heart monitors, the whole she-bang. Except people are paying ten dollars a minute to be fed on by djinn.”

Sam nodded. “For the hallucinations. Like an opium den. Okay.” His face was serious, focused.

“More like the friggin’ holodeck. I looked through their catalogue and they have over a hundred fantasies. Astronaut. Spy. Indiana Jones.”

“I take it Cas isn’t being Indy?” Sam had a hint of amusement in his voice now.

Dean shook his head. It was only going to get worse if he delayed. Better get it out now, like yanking off a Band-Aid.

“His fantasy’s more like Leave It To Beaver. Except….” He sipped his beer and looked away. “Except I’m Mrs. Cleaver.”

Sam didn’t bother to hide his grin now. “Is Cas playing Ward or The Beaver?”

“Come on, man. This isn’t funny. Cas is letting these things feed on him.” The thought of a Djinn feeling its way through Cas’ mind pissed Dean off in ways he couldn’t even express.

“So he can live in suburbia. With you.” Sam’s cheeks dimpled.

Dean breathed through his anger. This wasn’t about him.

”This ain’t about me. This is about Cas.”

Cas was one of them. It was normal to feel protective. Even if he had hidden this from them, and stolen money from the government to do it.

He thought of Sam’s comparison of the djinn lair to an opium den and of his brother’s history with demon blood. Dean hadn’t handled that well and it had almost cost his brother's life. This time he was gonna do what he should’ve done when that bitch Ruby came sniffing around Sam.

“I’m gonna gank those bastards.” Dean squeezed a fist. He had a silver knife in the Impala, but he’d need to get some lamb’s blood. Maybe from that Greek butcher over by the sports arena. They could be there and back by 1:00am.

He realized Sam was talking. “…and it’s not like the clients don’t know what they’re getting into. You said yourself they take a medical history.”

Dean frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying those people don’t need saving.”

“So we what? Just let it happen?” Dean was appalled when he thought of a djinn touching Cas, feeding off him. God, he didn’t even want to think about what drinking angel blood must be like. Maybe even more of a high than demon blood. The djinn might never let Cas go.

“Cas can make his own choices,” Sam said. “We have to step back.”

“He’s a friggin’ addict, Sam. His choices are shit right now.”

“If that’s true—and you have no evidence that it is—then taking away his drug of choice might be dangerous. Djinn toxin in a human body being occupied by an angel? We don’t know how something like this works. Cold turkey could seriously hurt him.”

Dean drained his beer, grabbed two slices of cold pizza from the fridge and headed for the television. No way was he gonna do nothing. You didn’t just step back and let a friend pursue an addiction to djinn poison. If Sam wasn’t up for killing the bastard, then he’d do the work solo. But first he needed to understand what he was dealing with.

* * *

 

Dean settled on the couch to watch the new episode of Dr. Sexy, but his attention wandered during a commercial for weight-loss products.

Sammy had a point. Cas was a grown…entity. And Dean did respect his choices. Usually. But this choice was a little outside the box. Maybe there wasn’t much evidence yet, but the secrecy, and the whole vibe screamed ‘addiction’ to Dean.

He wondered what would drive Cas to a place like that. Maybe losing and regaining his grace had done more of a number on the angel than they’d thought. Maybe Cas wanted to recapture some aspect of feeling human. Maybe he just couldn’t stand another minute being Cas. Dean had certainly had moments when he was sick to the teeth of being Dean Winchester.

He bit off a mouthful of pizza and chewed thoughtfully.

Maybe the fantasy interested Cas on a purely intellectual level. The house in the ‘burbs, hamburgers and pie, their baby—was nice. Domestic. A taste of what neither of them could have. Safety, routine, family. Maybe Cas didn’t know people would read sexual meaning into it.

Dean drank beer as a man on the screen told him about heartburn. Who was he kidding? Cas’ fantasy might as well be a Harlequin, with Dean shirtless on the cover. And Cas had hidden it from them, so he must’ve known.

When the angel came into the room Dean tried to look casual but his mind was racing. He watched Cas peer curiously at a bookshelf and remove a text. What did the angel do in his fantasy? Did he get some kind of satisfaction from pretending to teach grade school? Was he a good father to Mary? Did he and fantasy-Dean kiss?

He watched Cas lick a finger and turn a page. Maybe they did more than kiss. Fantasy-Dean had seemed friendly and up for anything. And Cas was an immense, timeless, other-worldly being packed into the body of Jimmy Novak. Who knows what someone like that would find arousing when he was alone with nobody to judge? Dean hadn’t seen the entire bungalow. For all he knew there could be a sex dungeon down the hall.

“You’re missing your show,” Cas said, not looking up from the book.

“Right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Cas walked out, eyes still on the book. Dean waited until he was gone before turning back to his show, having missed the storyline about Dr. Piccolo’s sexy but accident-prone cousin.

* * *

 

Castiel made himself comfortable at the table with a collection of books. Sam supposed there was no time like the present. They’d never understand his behavior unless they talked it out. He had his own suspicions of why Castiel was buying time in a fantasy world, but unlike his brother, he didn’t need to fly off the handle about it. The situation called for smart, careful, methodical work.

“Do you ever miss being human?” Sam asked.

“Technically, I’ve never been human,” Castiel corrected. “I’ve needed to eat, sleep, and eliminate, but I was always still an angel.”

“Well, being without grace, then. Do you miss that?”

“You’re asking if I miss being subject to random chemical impulses, physically vulnerable, and locked in my vessel until death?”

“I guess I am.”

“Not as such, no.” Castiel turned a page. 

Sam took a breath. Oblique wasn’t working. Maybe blunt and direct was a better way to go. 

“Look Cas, I know something’s bothering you. Why don’t you tell me what it is and we can work on it together?”

Castiel cocked his head. Sam suspected that signified that the angel was looking at him with one of his other angelic faces. “What if I asked you to leave it alone?”

“I can’t. You’re family, and I’m concerned about you. I’m gonna keep asking.”

Castiel gave a weary smile. “So you’re going harass me until I share something deeply personal?”

“No apocalypse happening at the moment. I have nothing but time.”

Castiel capitulated. “Food tastes different without grace.”

“Yeah?”

The angel nodded. “Pleasurable.”

“Okay.” Sam nodded. This was good. Castiel was talking. He just needed to find the sore spot now. “How is that a problem?”

“Are you aware that humans regenerate their skin in its entirety each month?”

“Okay. And?”

“And…you’re sloughing skin. Constantly.” Castiel let his head fall back, a sign of exasperation in humans. “I can taste it.”

Sam winced. That sounded gross, but gross was a value judgment and angels often had very different values.

“Tell he how that makes you feel.” It was Psychiatry 101, but classics became classics for a reason.

Castiel hid his face in his hands. “I am having a reaction to Dean’s skin cells.”

“Like an allergy?” Sam knew it wasn’t that, but Castiel would tell him more if he was correcting him. It was his most comfortable dynamic.

“No. Before I only tasted molecules. Now I taste…Dean. I have an opinion on that taste, a response. I had some experiences when I was mortal. So I recognize the effect now.” Castiel looked at him meaningfully as if begging Sam not to make him say more. “You see the dilemma.”

Sam followed the logic trail. Castiel could taste Dean. If he tasted bad that might be off-putting, like being around someone who smelled. If he tasted good, was it good like ‘I want to eat you up,’ or good like ‘I want to tear the flesh from your bones?’ Given their lives Sam couldn’t eliminate either one from the realm of possibility.

“Is the reaction sexual, or gastronomical?” he asked, not sure which he’d prefer.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Sexual.”

“That’s the enormous problem you couldn‘t bring yourself to discuss?” Seriously? Sam’s brow furrowed. All this fuss and the angel turns out to be hiding a sexuality crisis?

“Saaam.” Castiel put the same cajoling whine into his name that Dean sometimes used.

Sam raised a hand. “I thought God was indifferent to sexual orientation. Why is it a problem if you think Dena's...tasty?”

“This isn’t about orientation,” Castiel hissed. “This is about ontology. I wasn’t created to have emotions. I wasn’t designed to lust.”

Sam looked concerned. Maybe Castiel had been hiding his attraction to Dean because it signaled a bigger problem. “Is something wrong with your grace? Are you falling?”

“No. My grace is strong.”

“Then why are you so worked up about it?”

“You’re right, Sam,” Cas spoke through gritted teeth. “Why should I be concerned about manifesting one of the Seven Deadly Sins while having the powers of a seraph? I don’t know.”

Sam flinched. “Okay. When you put it like that.” The angel had learned that sarcasm from Dean. “What should we do?”

“I _should_ remove myself from Dean until his soul no longer has a human body by which I could be affected.”

And the Oscar for overreaction by a celestial being goes to…

“You’d leave and never see him again?” Sam knew Cas wouldn't. The angel's poker face wasn't what it used to be

“Until his soul arrived in heaven," Castiel corrected.

“We’ll find another solution," Sam assured him. "Don’t leave.”

“I can’t. I’m only saying that I _should_.”

* * *

 

Sitting in the waiting room of Dreamweavers, Dean told himself that he needed to stop to invading Cas’ fantasies. At first it had been a totally reasonable fact-finding mission. Like reading a confidential file. Lately though, it had started to feel dirty, like watching the guy jerk off. Except maybe it was more like catching him jerking off while smelling your dirty t-shirt. Not that Cas did any of those things. Dean frowned.

Unless he did.

The point was, Dean needed to stop coming to dreamweavers and ordering a carbon copy of Cas’ fantasies. And he would. Any time now.

Cindy called his alias and he stood and followed her down the hall to a treatment room.

Dean no longer felt the urge to kill Dr. Reza. Like Sam had said, nobody was in danger here. Given how the djinn was helping him understand Cas better, he almost felt grateful.

He’d seen the fantasy where he was Cas’ housewife twice now. But there was also one where he and Cas were yuppies in some construction company, and one where they kept bees on the roof of a brownstone. Each fantasy was different, but they all had one thing in common: his double coming onto him. Was this how Cas saw him? Some manwhore who couldn’t keep it in his pants? Or was this how Cas wished Dean would be with him? Either way, it was an issue.

He was pretty sure he could only fend the double off so long. Did getting handsy with your fantasy double count as doin’ it with another guy? Or was it just creative masturbation?  Dean huffed.

“Good to see you again,” Dr. Reza said. “Another double-header for you and Mr. Winchester?”

“Yep.” Dean gave a tight nod. He had to stop coming here. One of the staff was going to mention him to Cas. And then he’d have a pissed off angel on his hands. “But can you make it so I’m me, and he’s him?” If this was going to be his last go-round he might as well see the story from every angle. Maybe this time he’d get to hold baby Mary on his hip as he greeted Cas at the door of their suburban home.

“Absolutely!”

Dean relaxed, and let the doctor do his thing.

This was not suburbia.

Dean was lying in a grassy field, watching white clouds like soap bubbles drift across the sky. He smelled mowed lawns and barbecue. Cas was next to him, casually holding his hand.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” It was weird not to see his double, but Fantasy-Cas looked happy. 

Dean realized he was barefoot and curled his toes into the grass, which was spiky and cool to the touch. It was so realistic. The sun was warm on his t-shirt. Even his palms seemed to be sweating a little. The djinn was good at what he did.

“It’s gratifying to see you this tranquil,” Cas said.

“Ain’t much about my life that’s tranquil.” Dean looked down at their joined hands. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course.”

Dean reminded himself that any answers he got from fantasy-Cas were coming from his own imagination, but he asked anyway.

“When did you know you wanted this?” He squeezed Cas’ hand.

Cas smiled. “When did I know I loved you?”

“Is that what’s goin‘ on here?” Dean’s chest tightened. He figured Cas had a crush on him when he saw the first fantasy, but hearing the angel use the L-word was scary.

“The moment I saw your soul.”

Well that wasn’t exactly good news.

“In Hell, where I was torturing people.” Dean felt like he’d been gutted. Pain? Humiliation? Was that what floated Cas’ boat?

Cas shook his head and looked shy. “They had degraded you, but even then, your soul was righteous. Beautiful.”

Dean calmed. “I could do without the beautiful, but thanks.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Humans are so gendered. Would you prefer if I called you handsome?”

“Hands down over beautiful.”

Cas rolled against him, solid and heavy, and Dean tensed. This was unexpected, even from an angel with no concept of personal space. This was intimate. Physical.

“You know what we should do, Dean?”

“What?” Dean’s voice creaked. He could feel the angel’s body heat where their chests touched. Shit. Cas was going to kiss him.

Dean licked his lips. It was just a fantasy, he reminded himself. 

From somewhere nearby Benny shouted, “Come and get ‘em!” 

The angel pulled back, leaving Dean feeling…well, he wasn’t sure exactly. It was like when his father’s leather jacket had been stolen from a motel room outside of Fresno.

Loss. He was feeling loss.

“You should eat. You’ll need your energy for the sack races,” Cas explained.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Dean was irrationally angry at fantasy-Benny, and the word ‘cock-block’ drifted across his mind. He stood, and followed Cas toward the brightly colored tents and the sound of kids laughing.

It had better be damned good barbecue.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m getting sick of you brooding all over the place,” Sam announced.

Dean jumped, spilling his coffee. He wiped a hand down his front and tried to look like he’d slept more than forty minutes last night.

“Gimme a break. I’m worried about Cas.”

Sam rummaged through the fridge and started doing something with an avocado and a package of ground beef. Dean’s concentration wasn’t up to following along.

“The djinn thing?”

“Yeah. You know of any other problem we’re having with Cas?” Was Sam always this dense or did he just seem that way when Dean was exhausted?

Sam snorted. “I still say it’s not a case. Those people don’t need us.” He banged around in the cabinets.

“And Cas? We just leave him there?” Dean topped up his coffee and tried to focus. Cas needed help.Dean had failed enough people already, so he couldn’t afford to screw this up. But that didn’t mean he knew what to do.

“He’s not wasting away, trapped in a nightmare,” Sam argued. “He’s getting a service.”

Dean glanced at the cutting board. His brother was chopping mushrooms, a stack of tortillas by his elbow.

“Breakfast burritos?” His appetite was up and running. “Make me one?”

Sam nodded and continued chopping.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Dean leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. “Cas goin’ there?”

“It obviously bothers _you_.” Sam scraped the cutting board into the pan, making it sizzle.

“Hell yeah. He’s made me his friggin’ wife.”

Which he was definitely not. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of frying beef, onions, and garlic. Even if he _were_ in a relationship with another guy for some reason, he wouldn’t do all the cooking and cleaning like Suburban Fantasy Dean. Real Dean wasn’t that domestic. Real Dean had spent most of his life eating in greasy spoons across America. Sure, he could whip up a good burger, but he wasn't in the same league as Suburban Dean. That guy had a spice rack. And don’t even get him started on Yuppie Dean, who ate organic salad, and disinfected his pens. That guy had problems.

“Cas isn’t accountable to you for that,” Sam said, snapping Dean out of his reverie. “Those are his private thoughts. It’s like you read his diary and then complained about what he wrote.”

“You’re makin' us sound like nine year old girls.” Whatever this thing between him and Cas was, it wasn’t sweet, and he didn’t think it was innocent.

“ _Private_ fantasy, Dean. Private.”

“You wouldn’t think so if it was _you_ holding hands with him at the fair.”

“Holding hands? At the fair?” Sam smiled so wide it looked like his face might crack in half. Dean hoped it did.

Winning an argument with Sam was tough at the best of times, and without sleep or food the best he could do was look disapproving.

“Yuk it up!” He groused. “It’s _his_ fantasy, not mine.”

“You sure?” Sam smirked. “I’ve been reading up on djinn and the hallucinations are partly shaped by the victim, or uh, client. You.”

“You sayin’ I wanna fall on my ass in a sack race?”

And almost suck face with an angel of the Lord?

“You don’t?” Sam looked disbelieving. Dean hated that look. It was all, ‘Who do you think you’re fooling?’ His brother had perfected it when he was six.

“In _my_ fantasy I’d be eating pie with Lucy Liu. Or that hot chick from Buffy.” Dean’s stomach growled as he waited for his food. All his body seemed to do lately was hurt and want.

“Got it. Big Straight Man.” Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean stared. And people thought he was the insensitive one? Not that Dean wanted a big heart to heart, but if he _had_ been having a…gay thing, knowing Sam was okay with it wouldn’t have gone amiss.

“I _am_ straight.” Ish. Mostly straight. Straight with a footnote, maybe.

“I have two words for you: Dr. Sexy.”

He raised a finger. “No-no-no-no-no-no. Everyone likes Dr. Sexy!” It was a fact. That’s why they named the show that.

“Not the way you do.” Sam glared at him, like a skeptical giraffe.

Dean fumed. Liking fictional guys didn’t count toward being gay. Did it? All guys had an occasional funny dream about Han Solo or Batman. He was sure of it. Not sure enough to mention it, though.

Sam slid a plate in front of him and then sat, looking concerned. Dean hoped things weren’t about to get chick-flick. “Or, maybe your fantasy is to just be a guy at the fair. Normal. Not getting eaten by hellhounds.”

“Maybe.” Dean watched his brother for any sign of deception. “It doesn’t weird you out?”

Sam laughed. “I’m more surprised you lost a sack race.”

Dean jabbed holes in the burritos with his fork.

“Those kids cheated. Cas and I were robbed.”

Dean spent a good chunk of the week thinking about Cas. While taking out a ghoul infestation at a nursing home he thought about how bad-ass the angel was. Dean had seen some good fighters, and gone up against most of ‘em, but Cas stood out. While changing the oil on the Impala he thought about a time on an empty highway in Arizona, with the angel bobbing his head to Kasmir as Sam slept in the back. That had been a good drive, and Cas was good company. At a diner just outside of the Pine Ridge Reservation Dean remembered how Cas had gone crazy for hamburgers when affected by Famine.

“You’re not hungry,” the Horseman had told him, “because you’re already dead.”

Dean’d had worse insults, but not many.

He didn’t think he was dead inside, but he couldn’t prove it. Not by his relationship history, anyhow. His best relationship was with Lisa, who had no memory of him now. Talk about a breakup. His longest close relationship was with his brother, and he’d screwed that up more than a few times. And Cas? The angel was his best friend. He needed Cas.

Dean ran a hand down his face. But that almost-kiss had been close.

Maybe what he felt for Cas wasn’t a gay thing. Technically, the angel was a big holy energy wavelength thing. His eyes were pretty, even if his vessel was a man. And he dared anyone to say they had a problem with Cas’ lips. So of course he’d been close to kissing them. The angel’s feminine qualities confused his toxin-addled brain. No big (gay) thing. Could happen to anyone.

But going off the fantasies, Cas wanted something physical. And there was nothing feminine about Cas’ stubble, and under his suit he was 100% male. So maybe the gay thing was back on the table.

But even if he might—might—imagine going there with Cas, when people slept with their best friend it either blew up in their face or led to grandkids. Their friendship was too important to risk in some Bert-n-Ernie experiment.

Although…maybe Dreamweavers offered a way to eliminate the risk. Dean chewed his bottom lip. The strategist in him found the idea appealing. He’d kiss Cas in a djinn fantasy and see how he felt. And if it crashed and burned, no harm done. At least he’d know. And he could rub Sam’s face in it the next time he got the ‘take emotional risks’ speech.

* * *

 

Castiel tensed when Sam initiated contact with him in the library. He had been reading a first century BCE translation of a Sumerian text. He remembered the Sumerians well. They had called themselves The Blackheaded People, and believed it was their destiny to work in tandem with the forces of God to hold back chaos.

“Hey Cas, can we talk?”

Evidently.

Castiel avoided eye contact. “Is it about how I am committing a cardinal sin and recently broke my father’s commandment against stealing?”

“No, actually. It’s about Dean.”

Castiel looked up and smiled. He was always interested in talking about Dean.

“I saw him heading for the garage earlier. Is he unwell?” Dean had looked as if he had a sleep deficit approaching thirty hours.

“Maybe. A little. You know how he gets.” Sam pushed the hair from his eyes. “He cares a lot. You know that, right?”

Castiel gave a tentative nod. No one could doubt the Righteous Man’s ability to form emotional attachments.

“He’s just uncomfortable with the whole guy-guy thing.” Sam waved a hand. “That’s probably Dad’s fault. He was in the Marines, you know? Me, I grew up watching Ellen, and Will & Grace, but Dean’s kind of stuck. He’s not comfortable showing emotion when other men are involved.”

“Other men?”

“You.”

Castiel did not bother to hide his horror. His lust problem was his alone. The last thing he wanted was to increase Dean’s emotional burden.

“You told Dean?”

“About him being tasty? No.” Sam laughed. “His ego’s big enough as it is.”

Castiel sensed an element of mockery in Sam’s voice, but he didn’t see why his sexual attraction to Dean was any different from Sam’s attraction to rebellious underweight women. Sensory nerves sent data to the brain, and some data elicited a sexual response. Was taste an odd sexual stimuli? How was it different than smell or appearance? Perhaps being attracted by taste was an American cultural taboo.

“You should talk to him,” Sam continued. “Tell him how you feel. But take it slow, okay? Don’t push for too much too fast. He’s having a gay panic right now.”

Castiel had no intention of pushing Dean to reciprocate his interest. Dean viewed their relationship as familial. He’d said so. Despite some non-canonical gospels online, Dean didn’t pursue sexual attachments to family members, although he had once spoken philosophically about something he called the ‘hot cousin rule.’

If Dean were panicked then clearly Castiel’s boundaries had been insufficient. He had tried reducing the amount of time he spent with Dean already, but perhaps he should have gone with his first plan and waited until Dean no longer had a physical body.

“I regret making Dean uncomfortable.”

“He’ll get over it,” Sam said. “Just know that he cares—he really does—but you might not be on the same page about how to express it yet.”

“Understood.”

Sam patted his shoulder, perhaps intending the gesture to be consoling. Castiel returned to his book, eager to focus on the Sumerian values of obedience, and work. These, he understood. These were simple.

* * *

 

Dean settled into the treatment chair at Dreamweavers. No matter how professional they made this place look, it was a feeding trough for monsters. But today it was the tool he needed. He’d run a simulation, risk-free, and figure out if he had any interest in Cas that way. And if it all went to hell then no real angels would be harmed.

Before he knew it he was lying on the grass again, looking at the sky, holding Cas’ hand.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean rolled to face him, and when Cas didn’t pull back he shuffled closer still. Cas nuzzled him, clearly pleased.

Dean smiled. This was crossing the ‘just friends,’ border already, but it felt okay.

So what was the next step? Roll? Nudge up against his cheek, maybe? Or should he bite the bullet, already? Dean took a deep breath and moved, straddling Cas and caging him in with his arms.

“This is different.” Cas looked up at him with surprise. “I like it.”

“Good. Cause I wanna try something.” Dean swallowed. His eyes darted from Cas’ eyes to his lips and back again. This was it.

He leaned in.

They never made it to the fair.

* * *

 

Dean sat with his back to the wall of the recovery room, sipping orange juice and feeling alarmed. He had made the most of his twenty-minutes, gone as far as third base, and discovered he was definitely into Cas that way. Now he had to figure out what to do about it.

It was his fault that Cas had been coming here. After his grace was stolen the angel had been practically human, with needs he hadn’t had before. He’d even gotten down and dirty with a woman. But there hadn’t been anyone since, so the angel was likely a little touch-starved. Going by Cas’ fantasies, he wanted to touch Dean. And if Real Cas kissed anything like Fantasy Cas did, then who knew where it might lead. Wherever it went, it didn’t seem likely to be a one-shot deal, and that scared the crap outta him. But running into scary situations face-first was kinda his thing.

He was gonna do this.

Really.

Shit. He was really gonna do this.

He drove home, grabbing a bucket of chicken at a drive-thru. The next morning he rose early to put his plan into action. He shaved, showered, and dressed, then examined himself in the mirror. Should his hair be spikier? Maybe he oughta wear the other flannel? When he looked as good as he was gonna, he went to the kitchen, packed a cooler full of food, then linked his fingers in prayer.

“Hey Castiel. Cas. Uh, it’s me. Hoping we could talk. If you’re free.” He wondered if the angel could sense his nervousness.

“Hello Dean.” Cas set his duffel bag on the floor, reminding him of how this whole thing started. If someone had told him that a huge bag of cash was going to kick-start the gay phase of his life he’d never have expected this.

Dean felt the ghost of Cas’ mouth on his, and remembered the way the angel’s stomach had trembled when Dean slid his hand into his pants. He glanced away and smiled, his face heating up.

“Got anything goin’ on?” He wiped his sweaty palms on a dishtowel. He could do suave okay with women but suddenly he felt like a total dork.

“Nothing world-ending. Why?”

“I wondered, if you’re not busy… there’s a fair two counties over. Waddaya say?”

“A fair.” Cas licked his lips and swallowed.

Dean’s Spidey senses were tingling. Something was wrong. The angel looked like he’d eaten the last piece of pie and felt really shitty about it.

“Yeah. Rides, games, cheap-ass prizes. Picnic lunch.”

“Is Sam coming with us?”

“Nah. He’s got that fear of clowns thing. This’d just be you and me.”

“You and me. Alone.” Cas’ eyes opened wider. “This is a guy-guy thing.”

“Yeah. Two guys, hanging out. Holding hands, maybe? See where it goes?” He was confident he could go to third base again, and with this newfound confidence came an interest in proving it. Plus, he’d tried some of that chicken last night and it was damn good. Cas was gonna love it.

“I have something you’ll like.” He smiled. “Very tasty.”

Cas looked horrified.

“So, you in?”

“No, thank-you.”

Dean blinked and the angel was gone. He stood in the empty kitchen, feeling sick.

“Okay.”

He felt his lip wobble and bit it into submission.

“Good to know.”

He opened the cooler and stared into it a moment before he started to unpack it.

He’d been dumped before. It was no big thing. He’d been dumped because summer was ending, because he’d gotten arrested, and once because he revealed he was a hunter. But this was the first time he’d been dumped for a fantasy version of himself, and it cut to the bone.

Dean spotted Cas’s bag of cash, abandoned. He hefted the bag over his shoulder. Maybe the angel would come back for it. Dean hoped he would.

He grabbed the bucket of chicken and a handle of whiskey, then headed for his room. If the angel preferred fantasy over reality, it was his loss.

Forty minutes later the monologue in Dean’s head had changed. Of course Cas preferred Fantasy-Dean. Real Dean was a fuck-up who hadn’t graduated high school, had a short temper, and a tendency to die messy. Being rejected by someone who could see your soul wasn’t offensive so much as inevitable. He hadn’t had a chance.

Dean lay in the dark for days, drinking whiskey and eating chicken. He passed out next to Cas’ duffel and woke clinging to it. He loudly mocked the intern on Dr. Sexy, M.D., who was optimistic about love. Finally Sam flipped the lights on, marched him to the bathroom, and demanded he shower, sober up, and ditch the chicken, which he claimed had gotten “scary looking.”

Dean surrendered, stripped, and stumbled into the shower. The water pressure was perfect, and the soap smelled like springtime. He stayed until his skin wrinkled.

Wrapped in one of the bunker’s thin, government-issue towels, he headed back to his room and recoiled when he opened the door. Sam was right, this place reeked. He gave the place a few bursts from a canned deodorizer, then dressed and frowned at his phone. He’d sent Cas seven messages and the angel hadn’t answered a one. He’d switched to prayers yesterday, but got no response from that either.

He dressed and wandered into the kitchen, clutching the bag of cash like a security blanket. Once there, Sam forced him to eat a bunch of vegetables disguised as a bowl of soup.

“What’s going on with you and Cas?” Sam asked, making a point of not looking at the bag.

Dean shrugged. “How would I know? He’s giving me the silent treatment.”

Sam looked worried. “Have you tried apologizing? Or are you all, ‘get your feathery ass down here’?”

“Apologize? What for?” For getting rejected? For finding out how pathetic he really is?

“You didn't say anything stupid, did you?”

“No.” Dean sulked as he ate. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I rest my case.”

“Rest my ass.” Dean and headed back to his room, clutching the bag. If Cas wouldn't face him like a man then he'd have to take steps.


	5. Chapter 5

The day had been going well, up until his visit with Dean. Castiel had put Sam’s idea for dealing with the witches into practice, and the ringleader of the Kansas City coven was now working at a Gas N’ Sip in a parallel dimension. Castiel was confident she would become manager within a year. She had leadership skills, even if she couldn’t remember where she’d developed them.

In the kitchen of the bunker, Castiel set his duffel bag on the floor and wrinkled his nose. Dean smelled of fear and fried chicken, but his taste was sweet, musky, and salty. It was extremely affecting. Images of dragging his mouth across Dean’s skin flashed through his mind, as vivid as any Djinn fantasy.

“A fair.”

At Dean’s unsettling words Castiel’s blood redirected from his digestive system to his muscles, leaving him queasy. Dean’s proposal bore an alarming resemblance to his last session at Dreamweavers. And experience had taught him that there were no coincidences where the Winchesters were concerned.

Could Dean know about the fantasy service he’d been using? It didn’t seem possible.

“Is Sam coming with us?”

“Nah,” Dean said. “He’s got that fear of clowns. This’d just be you and me.”

“You and me. Alone.” Oh no. This was what Sam had warned him about. “This is a guy-guy thing.”

“Yeah. Two guys, hanging out. Holding hands, maybe? See where it goes?”

A picnic. Holding hands.

This was definitely his fantasy.

Panic dug its claws into Castiel’s chest. Mind control. Somehow he’d used it without realizing, projecting his desire onto Dean and forcing him to act them out. Castiel recoiled from the depths to which his lust had caused him to sink. Was there no end to his depravity?

For a millisecond the angel was glad it wasn’t one of his more embarrassing fantasies. And then the crushing guilt landed. Dean valued free will—he’d fought a war over it. And Castiel had violated that freedom.

“I have something you’ll like,” Dean said, looking pleased. “Very tasty.”

Castiel recoiled. Sam had clearly broken his confidence despite his words about Dean’s ego. It didn’t matter. He was too ashamed to be angry.

“So, you in?” Dean asked.

“No, thank-you.” Castiel choked out the words and fled, hating himself, and hating what he’d done to Dean.

He needed to get his emotions under control. He would need a clear mind to figure out how this had happened and to prevent it from happening again. He would have to consult Dr. Reza.

But before he visited Dreamweavers he needed to visit the Federal Reserve. He’d left his money in Dean’s kitchen. And services like Dreamweavers didn’t come cheap.

* * *

 

Sam entered the war room to find Dean hunched over the table, muttering in Latin and dripping blood onto a map. There was a small shimmering over the map and Dean looked pleased.

“New case?” Sam asked.

Dean straightened and crushed the bloody map to his chest. “No! This is personal.”

“Personal.” Sam looked warily at his brother. Dean had been acting odd for weeks. He’d tried being supportive, and he’d tried tough love, but now he’d caught him doing secretive magic. So he used The Stare.

And waited.

Dean broke, as Sam hoped he would.

“It’s Cas, okay? I’m trackin’ Cas.” He dropped the map on the table and glared. “Don’t make this weird.”

Sam deserved a medal for not laughing.

“You’re magically stalking your interspecies crush,” he pointed out, looking down at the map. “It’s plenty weird.”

“Whatever.”

This was different. Normally when Sam teased Dean about Cas, Dean got defensive. If he wasn’t bothering to deny it, something had changed.

Sam noted where the blood had marked the map. “Topeka?”

Dean nodded and pointed to the lower left quadrant of the map. “Yesterday he was all over a seven mile radius of Marion County, probably following bees again. Says it helps him think. Then he was in New Jersey, likely re-uping on cash. Today he’s at the Djinn den in Topeka.” He wondered if Dreamweavers was a chain, like Biggersons.

“Dean, I gotta ask. What is up with you? One day you’re furious, then you’re crying in your room, now you’re stalking Cas. I’m worried.”

His brother looked older than Sam had seen him before. Considering they’d faced more than one apocalypse, that was saying something.

“I asked him out.” Dean avoided eye contact.

“Out how?”

“A fair—big-ass rides, fried everything, stupid games. A fuckin’ date, okay?”

“And he turned you down?”

Dean snorted his derision.

Sam crossed his arms and his forehead wrinkled in thought. He’d thought Cas would jump at the chance to go on a date with Dean. Then again, Dean and Cas weren’t exactly the world’s best communicators. Maybe they’d gotten their wires crossed.

“Are you sure he said no?” Sam asked.

“I think I can tell the difference between yes and no.”

Sam sat heavily into a chair and stretched out his long legs. “I don’t get it.”

“Spare me the ‘you’re a catch’ speech,” Dean mumbled.

“I wouldn’t call you a _catch_.”

Dean smacked him on the arm. “Bitch!”

“What?” Sam smirked. “You have issues, Dean. I wouldn’t sign you up for dating civilians, but if anyone could handle you, Cas could.”

“You got it wrong, Sammy. I’m just an interesting bug to him. Like those bees he watches.” His voice was thick and wet.

Sam blushed. “Uh, trust me. That’s not how he finds you.”

Dean turned, a determined look in his eye. “Has he said somethin’ to you?”

Sam weighed his options. His brother looked like he might strap him to a chair and interrogate him with a grapefruit spoon. But Cas wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy when he was pissed off either.

“I promised I wouldn’t say anything, and I won’t. You and Cas need to talk to each other.”

Dean grinned. “Oh, we will.”

* * *

 

The next morning, Dean slouched behind an old _People_ magazine in the Dreamweavers waiting room. After calling, texting, and praying to Cas with no result, Dean was now worried he might run into him by accident before he could set his plan in motion. But last time he’d checked the angel was at a monastery in Brussels.

“Mr. St. Hubbins?” A friendly blonde in scrubs gestured to him.

Dean dropped the magazine, grabbed his duffel, and followed her.

In the treatment room, Dr. Reza smiled at him from a wheeled stool. “What can we do for you today?”

“Can you put two people into the same fantasy?” Dean asked.

Dr. Reza grinned. “Easily. We have several CEOs who bring their sales teams for bonding adventures. It’s safer than white water rafting.”

“Good, good.” Dean nodded. “I want to arrange a surprise for when Mr. Winchester comes in next.”

Dr. Reza scratched at his smooth head. “We don’t like to deviate from a client’s request.”

“Not even for special occasions?” Dean dropped Cas’ duffel onto the table and unzipped it.

Dr. Reza’s eyes widened at the bag of cash. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

 

Castiel relaxed into the padded treatment chair. Dr. Reza seemed nervous, and looked apologetic as he reached out with his blue fingers, but the angel didn’t dwell on that. He was too busy looking forward to seeing Dean again. Well, a reasonable approximation of Dean, anyhow.

First he had spent time watching bees. It was very meditative. Then he had spent a day at Dreamweavers, where Dr. Reza had helped him to explore his physical and emotional reactions to Dean. Castiel had made progress. He had assumed what he felt for the hunter was lust, but after a few fantasies where he had no sense of taste, he’d realized it was something more. Today he hoped to achieve greater clarity.

When Castiel opened his eyes he was in the padded vinyl booth of a bar. Dean sat across from him setting two beers on the table. Cas opened his mouth and let the sweet, salty taste of the hunter wash over him. His vessel’s nipples became erect. It was such a mammalian response that he couldn’t help but smile.

“Where are we?” he asked, curious. This was not the bungalow. It was a nice room—dark and warm and smelling pleasantly of men. On a stage across the room a beautiful man in a red sequinned dress was singing, _I just can’t get you outta my head, boy your love is all I think about._

Dean picked up one of the beers and took a gulp. “Gay bar I visited once in Austin. For a job.” He smirked. “We had to be somewhere, and I wanted to set a tone.”

Castiel picked up the other bottle of beer. It was cool and moist. “This is not my fantasy.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I arranged this so we could talk. You remember talking—that thing we used to do before you ditched me?”

Castiel tilted his head. Dean was rarely argumentative in his fantasies. Suddenly, the clues fit together. The Dean across from his was real. He felt ill.

He leaned back, putting as much distance between them as he could.

“I did not ‘ditch’ you. I removed myself for your safety and comfort.”

“Right.” Dean gulped beer again and turned it to watch the stage show. “Must be why I spent a week eating chicken in the dark and sobbin’ like a baby.”

“I never meant to upset you.” Castiel drank, using the strongly hoppy taste of the beer to block the arousing flavour drifting across the table “There is much you do not understand.”

“So Sam tells me.”

“Sam should not have told you about my…problem.” Castiel picked at the bottle’s label with his thumbnail.

“Don’t get your panties in a knot. All he said was we needed to talk, which I already knew. Come on Cas, a djinn? It’s not what I expected.”

“Humans use dreams to process memories and emotions,” Castiel explained, looking abashed. “Dr. Reza’s service was the closest I could get. How did you find out?”

“Tracking spell.”

Castiel sighed. “How much have you seen?”

Dean chuckled. “I’ve seen Suburban Dean, Yuppie Dean, some kinda Beekeeping Detectives, and the one where we go to the fair.”

“Oh.” Dean had seen everything.

Castiel felt relief. If Dean had learned about Dreamweavers then his picnic invitation hadn’t been the result of inadvertent mind control.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ So,” Dean leaned forward, forearms on the table, “mind tellin’ me what this is about? ‘Cause I am lost, here. First I thought you were into me. Romantically.” He exhaled heavily. “Guess I called that one wrong.”

“Dean, I—”

“It’s okay, Cas. I get it.”

Castiel felt drunk. Perhaps his vessel metabolized alcohol faster in fantasy. Or perhaps it was Dean’s proximity.

“I am very much _into you_.” His voice felt rough and blood rose to his face. “It’s why I kept my distance.” He hung his head. “I’ve abused power before.”

Dean waved a hand. “That was different. You were fulla leviathans. Of course you were crazy.”

“I was corrupt. There’s a difference.”

“Maybe. But I don’t get why you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Sam said you were having a gay panic. I thought you needed space.”

“I need _you_ , Cas.”

“You already have me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Dean glanced at his watch. “Drink up. Dude on stage finishes in a minute.”

Castiel drank and watched the performer sing a verse composed entirely of “la la la-la,” a derivative of the Sanskrit word for stammering. It was beautiful. Castiel looked across at Dean, his large in the dim light.

“What happens then?”

Dean grinned. “I put a couple a bucks into the juke box and we sway to music. If you’re up for that.”

“I am up for that.” Castiel drank. Everything sounded like a sexual innuendo. It must be the beer.

Moments later the stage had cleared and the spotlights went down. Dean strolled across the room, fed some bills into a machine, and jabbed buttons. The room filled with Elvis Aaron Presley singing, Can’t Help Falling in Love.

Dean took him by the hand and led him to the quickly filling dance floor, wrapping his arms around him, strong and close.

“This okay?”

“Very much so.” Castiel rested his head on Dean’s shoulder as they swayed, surrounded by strangers, but feeling as if they were the only people in the universe.

The song ended, followed by the acoustic guitar strains of Stairway To Heaven.

“I know this one,” Castiel whispered.

“I should friggin’ hope so.”

Robert Plant sang, _there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there's still time to change the road you're on._ Castiel wondered if that were true. He supposed there was only one way to find out.

“Dean?”

“Hmmm?” Dean’s response was low and hoarse.

Castiel took a risk he’d never dare to, outside of fantasy. “May I…taste you?”

“Fuck yeah.” Dean turned his head and slotted their lips together. Dean’s mouth tasted raw and strong, magnitudes better than airborne skin cells. Castiel lost himself as Dean’s tongue slid inside him.

Castiel’s lungs ached, but he didn’t care. Pleasure rolled through him like a soundwave. He wanted Dean’s flavor to fill him until there wasn’t room for anything else.

Dean pulled away to breath and they stared at each other with shiny eyes.

“This is wonderful,” Castiel confessed. “I’m sorry it has to end.”

Dean rubbed a hand across his back. “Nothing’s ending, Cas. I’ll be in the recovery room when we you get out. You’re comin' home with me.”

If Dean’s words were a lie, they were an appealing one.

“We must be close to our twenty minutes.”

“We got a few left,” Dean assured him.

Castiel pulled him closer. “Don’t tell me how many.”

Dean gripped him tightly. “I won’t.”

* * *

 

The drive back to Lebanon was different from any drive Dean had made before. The highway cut through lush green fields that stretched to the horizon, but he barely noticed them. Maybe it was the way Cas' legs opened slightly when Dean put his hand on his thigh. Maybe it was the loose, easy way Cas held his hand, or the soft feel of his skin under Dean’s thumb. Or maybe it was the knowledge that neither of them had anything left to hide.

When they pulled into the garage in Lebanon Dean killed the engine and shifted to face Cas.

“Just to be clear, we’re….” Boyfriends, the word that came to mind, sounded totally junior high. He tried again. “Is this.... This is a thing, right?”

Cas tilted his head. “Could you be more vague?”

“You’re gonna make me say it. Okay, fine. Tease. Would you, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, go out with me?”

Castiel considered it for a moment, which made Dean want to both smack him and kiss him. Finally he spoke.

“Are you requesting a monogamous relationship?”

Images of him and Cas enjoying sexy adventures at Dreamweavers flashed through Dean’s mind, followed by the disturbing image of a sexually awakened Cas flirting with some random dude in a bar.

“Yeah. Monogamous. Open to future negotiation.”

Cas nodded. “Is there a ritual for indicating acceptance of your offer?”

Dean ran a hand along the angel’s bristly cheek and then gripped the hair at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, actually. It’s traditional to make out in a car for a bit, then take things to the bedroom.”

Cas wet his lips. “You’d better walk me through it.”

Dean tried not to look too pleased.

* * *

 

“Whoa! What the hell, Dean?”

Dean lifted his head from Castiel’s lap, his lips swollen and tingling. Shit. He’d been pretty sure Sam was asleep. He glanced at the clock on the stove. Wow. How was it 10:00 am already? The breakfast they’d started sat abandoned.

Sam had both hands clamped across his eyes. “Seriously? The kitchen?”

“Sorry.” Dean didn’t feel remotely sorry. Sam’d had been Mr. Popularity while they were on the road, and even shacked up with that vet chick while Dean was in purgatory. This was Dean’s turn for love.

And maybe for a little payback.

“Just getting my daily recommended protein.” His voice was rougher than usual. 

Dean stepped back and Castiel tucked his erection away, jumped to the floor, and zipped up. Sam peered between his fingers as the angel tucked in his shirt, which he’d buttoned incorrectly.

“Based on your body weight,” Castiel corrected, “I’d need to ejaculate 138 times to meet your daily protein needs.”

“’Preciate the offer.” Dean filled a glass at the sink and took a gulp. “But I ain’t _that_ gay yet.” He passed the glass to Castiel.

Castiel drank, looking at him with amusement. “You’re that stubborn.” He passed the water back and Dean finished it.

Sam grabbed the car keys from the counter. “I’m going to the farmers market.” He pointed toward the counter. “I want every surface you did _that_ on disinfected before I get back.”

“Have fun, Sammy!”

“Bring home peaches!” Castiel called after him.

When the door slammed Dean turned to Cas, his smile wide and wicked.

“Thought he’d never leave.” He attacked that spot on Cas’ neck that made the angel’s knees buckle.

“How long do you think he’ll be gone?” Castiel gasped.

“Hours.” Dean lied.

Castiel pulled Dean’s phone from his pocket. “How about if I make it clear to Sam that he shouldn’t return before sunset?”

“Sounds good. What say we get started on that 138?” He walked his fingers down Cas’ torso, reminding him of their unfinished business. “Bet you tap out before I do.”

Castiel smiled. “In your dreams, Winchester.”


End file.
